The Missing link
by Svetlanacat
Summary: "No distance of place or lapse of time can lessen the friendship of those who are thoroughly persuaded of each other's worth."R.Southey.That's the end of the missing link. The Meeting Affair... will come later.
1. Chapter 1

Napoleon Solo shot his enemy, knowing that the bastard wouldn't gave him any other opportunity. The blond man threw himself aside, not quickly enough, anyway. He moaned, and staggered against the dry stone wall.

-No, Napoleon...

The bastard was whining, now! He didn't fool him. The Uncle agent replied flatly.

-You are right, man. My name is Napoleon Solo. No? No, what? « No, don't kill me! »?

Illya Kuryakin felt the blood running through his fingers. His partner stood in front of him, giving vent to hatred, a cold hatred. Clenched jaws, black eyes. Despite the darkness, he could see them twinckling. He had shot him. Deliberately. He wanted to kill him, obviously. The Russian knew this look.

-Napoleon, don't you recognize me?

-I know who you are: you are the damned little bastard who killed my partner! You murdered him mercilessly, and now, you are shivering with terror, coward!

Illya Kuryakin kept his hand on his shoulder, panting.

-Who... who was your partner?

Napoleon Solo sneered.

-Who was my partner? A good, a brilliant agent, a brave man, the bravest I ever met. And my friend. You killed him.

The Russian bit his lips. Perhaps there was a way. Napolen didn't answer the question.

-What was his name, Napoleon?

The dark haired man's words hit Illya Kuryakin like a whip.

-Mr Solo, bastard!

Softly, faintly, the Russian insisted.

-His name, Napoleon? He was your... closest friend, and you can't even tell ... his name?

Napoleon Solo shook his head. He didn't like that. The blond enemy was trying to delude him. He was evil!

-You are afraid? You are right! You know, I've got some precise orders.

-Orders? Who gave you orders?

It was amusing, eventually. The blond man was playing for time. Napoleon Solo would play with him. He sneered.

-Who gave me orders? My chief, who else?

-You chief? What's his name, Napoleon?

-You are a bit obsessed by names, aren't you?

The tone was different. Less hate, some humor. Napoleon Solo stiffened, and hissed.

-And Mr Solo, please!

Illya Kuryakin smiled faintly. There was a way.

-Tell me, Napoleon. What was your partner's name?...What's your chief's name?

The dark haired agent kept silent. The Russian went on, ironically.

-Could it be possible that you can't remember their names, Napoleon? Or... that you don't even know them?

Napoleon Solo burst into anger.

-Of course, I do, bastard! My partner is...

A blank. A terrible, absolute blank. Napoleon Solo knew the names. He knew them. It was just a question of... A blank. And horror overwhelmed him, as a part of him was realizing. A part of him remembered. Napoleon Solo, smiling smugly, trotting behind a man. An unknown man. But the blond guy who staggered in front of him was not unknown. The Uncle agent felt powerless. He was going to kill this man.

-His name, Napoleon?

The Russian whispered, out of breath. Napoleon Solo barked, obviously furious. Desperate.

-You are playing for time!

Illya Kuryakin gave up and fell on his knees. Immediately, his partner – his mortal enemy - startled. Th Russian went on. He had to.

-What did he look like, Napoleon? Tell me. Remember.

Napoleon Solo came up to him, his gun aiming at the Russian's temple. His hand shook.

-Any last will, bastard?

Illya Kuryakin sighed. There was a way, but he wouldn't have enough time. He raised his head, and tried to meet his friend's eyes, despite the darkness.

-Tell me his name. What did he look like, Napoleon? Please.

No fear in the bastard's eyes? No, no fear. Napoleon Solo read concern, worry. The blond man looked exhausted. No. He had killed his partner. His ... No image. No words. No name. A hint of lucidity. Something to cling at. He remembered that. But he had to kill this man. He had to and he didn't even know his name. Something important, to cling at. Familiar faces. Uncle.

-His name. Try, Napoleon. Please.

This man sounded desperate. Not because he was going to die. He was worrying about the man who had shot him. Who was about to kill him.

Napoleon Solo's fingers quivered on the trigger. But suddenly, it wasn't so easy. No more evidence. He had to hate this man because he had killed his partner His best friend;

A best friend whose face he couldn't even remember. Whose name, whose age he didn't know, any more. But this pale face, the blond hair, the blue eyes were familiar.

-You look terrible, my fr...

A strange remark. Some scandalous words. The part of him who knew forced him to add something. Such an amazing word.

-... tovarish.

His head was suddenly torn by an unbearable pain. He dropped his gun, and pressed his hands on his temples. Napoleon. Napoleon Solo was his name. Memories came back. They were entangled, confused, but they were memories. They were reality. Memories, and a feeling of horror. He knew his partner's name.

-Napoleon?

-Illya.

The blond Russian smiled. Where there was a will, there was a way. Napoleon Solo knelt next to him, his features contorted with horror. A slightly shaking hand grabbed his arm.

-Oh, my God, Illya. I told them. I told Waverly. The Doctor told him, but he didn't listen. We were right. I could have killed you.

The Russian squeezed his wrist.

-Help me, Napoleon. Help me to the house.

* * *

-What?

The man froze, but gave up. Uncle, again. Always Uncle! He dropped his gun on the floor, showing his hands. Those Uncle guys wouldn't shoot him. They had got principles.

* * *

This boded no good. Illya Kuryakin didn't call him back. Alexander Waverly had to give orders.

* * *

-The bullet had gone through, Napoleon. I'll survive. The reinforcements will be soon there.

The Russian talked with a light tone, but his friend was checking his dressing, his jaw tightly clenched.

-Napoleon! Stop it! Now!

The dark haired man sighed. Stopping what? He was overwhelmed both by guilt feeling and insidious terror.

-Napoleon?

Illya Kuryakin's hand squeezed his wrist. The blue eyes looked deeply in his own, but Napoleon Solo averted his gaze. A few minutes ago, he was consumed by anger and hatred. Ready, determined to kill a blond bastard. His partner. His friend.

-But you didn't, Napoleon.

He sneered. He did not. Thanks to his partner's reflexes. Illya Kuriakyn chuckled gently.

-And thanks to your shortcomings, concerning shooting, my friend!

Napoleon Solo shook his head. He didn't even notice the teasing words.

-I am so sorry, Illya.

The Russian squeezed again his wrist.

-You have not to be, Napoleon. You have not. It happened, already, don't you remember? I almost killed you. We know Thrush tricks. Medical will fix it. Trust me, Napoleon. Now, tell me: what happened?

Napoleon Solo smiled sadly, eased his friend on the bed, and started to recount. When he came up to the medal, Illya Kuryakin mechanically checked his chest. The dark haired man went on, relating his so amazing feelings when he had found himself next to « Illya »'s body. His doubts. His relief, as he had pointed out the trick. While he was speaking, he was looking at the dark window. He turned his gaze to his friend and couldn't help chuckling, softly. The Russian was soundly asleep, pale, but peacefully smiling. Typically Illya.

He felt safe. Safe because his partner was there. Because his friend would watch his back.

So confident, and so naive Illya! He slept, defenceless, at the mercy of the man who had just tried to kill him. Of the man who could be out of his mind, again, at the moment. He got up. He had to ... report.

The phone ring almost made him jump. Alexander Waverly picked it up hastily.

-Well, Mr Solo, I rely on you to take care of Mr Kuryakin. Our men are on their way.

-But, sir...

-I'll see you later, Mr Solo.

Napoleon Solo hung up impatiently. Alexander Waverly had listened, and again, he didn't take any notice of what he had reported to him. Taking care of Illya? Of course, he wanted to. Of course, he would. At the moment. As long as he was himself.

* * *

Alexander Waverly didn't waste time. The reinforcements had to hasten. Their enemy wouldn't let his plan fall through. Of course, the malicious man had managed to witness the show. So he knew.

* * *

Napoleon Solo closed the trap door and went back to the bedroom. He frowned. Illya Kuryakin was still asleep, but his face was dripping with sweat. The older agent had intended to look around the house, but he couldn't leave his friend. The young man was stirring, tossing and turning, panting, babbling. Napoleon Solo wiped his face, gently, with a damp towel, and the Russian immediately calmed down.

-Easy, Illya. Easy, my friend. Everything will be okay. Mr Wverly sees at it.

* * *

He stared at the four men, inquiringly. One was still aiming at him. The others searched the room. As one of them was brushing against the screen, he couldn't help frowning, and took a step forward. Coldly, the Uncle agent shot the device. The Thrush man clenched his teeths. Eventually, well done. He smiled at the pleasant thought. They had an opportunity. They could had saved their agents. They didn't take it.

A fifth man came in, and the older man froze. That was impossible!

-You? What... what are you doing there? I thought that it was the Uncle...

-Shut up! The Uncle? Oh, yes, it could have been. You owe us some explanations about all that mess.

The man burst into anger.

-You spoiled my plan!

-Your « plan »? Are you kidding? Your ridiculous plan? You could get rid of Solo and Kuryakin, and you spoiled this opportunity.

-You...

-Shut up! We let you do your own way, but you lied. You tried to delude us. Kuryakin's death? A lie! A trick! All that stuff, just in order to satisfy your hunger, your crazy hunger for revenge. We tolerated it, for awhile, but you lied and you failed!

The man barked, pointing his hand at the dilapidated screen.

-No! You destroyed that, but Solo is on the island. He has killed or he is about to kill Kury...

-Shut up. Solo and Kuryakin are on this island. With a squadron of Uncle agents! Thrush doesn't need such pleasantries. We'll come back home, and they'll come back home.

-But we could...

He stopped speaking, as he read the other's face. « Just give me an opportunity. »

* * *

Napoleon Solo heard some footsteps, outside. Reinforcements were there. They didn't care about making noise. He bent over his friend, gently stroking the damp locks. He went on talking. What was he talking about? He couldn't have said. He didn't know. Friendship, childhood, assignments, it didn't really matter; His voice allowed his friend to relax. So, he would talk, and talk again.

Illya Kuryakin felt a throbbing pain in his shoulder, going through his back. But he didn't mind. He was safe, he knew it. Npaoleon was safe, too. He was next to him, and he would see at everything. But the Russian felt really bad.

The Doctor frowned. The Uncle agent was unconscious, running a fever, which was not abnormal. But he had turned green, suddenly. The older agent cursed, and looked for something, a convenient receptacle. He pushed the Doctor away, gently lifted his friend's head, explaining.

-Illya is just seasick, Doctor. At a point you can't imagine.

Illya Kuryakin stirred, coughed, but finally won the battle. When he opened his eyes, he looked at the Doctor, suspiciously.

-Where... where are we?

Napoleon Solo eased his friend on the cot, and answered, forcing an amused tone.

-You know it, Illya, don't you?

The blond man hissed a moan.

-Please, Napoleon, could you ask this boat to stop rolling? Please, do that.

Napoleon Solo smiled.

-That, I can't do, my friend. Try to take some rest. When you'll wake up, you'll be on dry land. I promise.

* * *

Alexander Waverly sat next to his agent. He looked in front of him, at a wall of no relevance. What he had to say, what he had to do was so difficult. So cruel. So unfair.

He sighed.

-Mr Solo...

The dark haired man cut in. Napoleon Solo knew exactly what was going on.

-I had told you, sir. Do you remember? I knew that they would use me against the Uncle. You should have...

-We had to try, Napoleon.

-To try? What? I almost killed my partner, sir. And it could happen again. I am no use.

Alexander Waverly concentrated himself on the wall. How difficult. Napoleon Solo went on, gently.

-I know, sir. I know and I understand. You can't let me go. You can't take such a risk again. I can't be an Uncle agent any longer.

He paused to take a deep breath.

-And you can't let me leave the Uncle.

Alexander Waverly replied with a dull voice.

-They'll help you Napoleon. I swear. They'll look after you, and whatever Thrush did, they'll fix it.

The old man's blue eyes met his agent's hazel ones. For a few seconds, he saw a terrified little boy. Then, Napoleon Solo smiled sadly.

-Don't tell him, sir. Don't tell him. He won't accept it.

Alexander Waverly put his hand on Napoleon Solo's wrist but the agent stiffened.

-No, sir. I am ready. I suppose they are waiting for me.

He stood up and left the room.

* * *

This time, it was real. It was true. The apartment was empty. Someone would rent it soon. Illya Kuryakin went out, and handed back the key to the manager. He hoped that Napoleon, wherever he was, whatever he did, was happy. He hoped that some day he would came back. Would he?

They had investigated. No trace of their enemy. Apparently, Thrush had made some housework.

* * *

-You know what you deserved? You know that?

He refused to answer. The other man came up to him.

-You are a lucky man. You have one or two powerful friends. But you owe us something. We have been told that Napoleon Solo had left the Uncle.

He shrugged his shoulders. The other went on.

-It isn't true. They have sent him in one of their hospitals. In order to fix the problem. And we don't want them to do that. Eventually, Mr Solo could be of some use.

The man muttered.

-They won't let him leave so easily.

The other man sneered.

-That, my friend, that is my problem. And I think that Mr Kuryakin will obligingly help us. Later, we'll need you.

* * *

_Napoleon Solo lay on a narrow cot. He looked at the ceiling, desperately. His wrists and his ankles were..._

Illya Kuryakin wake up, choking.


	2. Chapter 2: Verba volant scripta manent

Illya Kuryakin lay back on the pillow, cursing at this recurrent nightmare. He had been on leave for some long boring days, arguing unflinchingly with Alexander Waverly, until the Old Man gave up and let him come back to the HQ.

The whole New York Uncle HQ looked like to be in an optimistic mood. People, first, was thrilled about his being alive, and they signified it to him, warmly. Illya Kuryakin smiled. It was really pleasant, comforting. They were convinced, too, that of course Napoleon Solo would come back, sooner or later. And that was pleasant, comforting, too.

For the Russian was not that sure of it.

Day after day, he had looked for a sign, a message, a call. In vain. He remembered his friend's face, contorted with horror, and he knew that his guilt feeling would fade. It would fade, but never disappeared. He knew it because he had experienced it. Illya Kuryakin closed his eyes. He was still experiencing it.

_-I could have killed him, sir. I nearly... I can't go on._

_-You could have, Mr Kuryakin. As far as I can say, Mr Solo is well alive._

_Alexander Waverly had replied quite harshly. Illya Kuryakin hadn't been able to bear the ice-blue gaze. His partner was alive. They had made it, once more time, but the young Russian felt devastated. Their partnership relied on trust, complete trust. He had bitten his lips._

_-Behave yourself, young man. I won't let you waste all our efforts, the time we have devoted to you. This..._

_Alexander Waverly had pointed his finger at the paper._

_-This is inopportune, out of the question._

_Silence, long, heavy silence. Illya Kuryakin had whispered, almost shyly._

_-He won't trust me anymore, sir._

_The Old Man had ignored him, shrugging his shoulders imperceptibly. Then, he had buried himself into some files. No more argument. No more discussion. Eventually, Illya Kuryakin had left the office, puzzled, lost._

_For years, since his not so innocent childhood days, the Russian had learned the power of having a will of his own. Deciding. Choosing. Following his own advices. His instinct. Then he had learned the absolute necessity of feigning. Faking. The stubborn and eventually obedient Kuryakin._

_He could have left the HQ, the Uncle. Alexander Waverly had ignored his resignation, but the young Russian was free. The power of having a will of his own. He could have gone away. The Old Man had just scolding him for behaving childishly._

_« I won't let you waste all our efforts... »_

_Finally, Illya Kuryakin had sat down in their office. Uncertain. He had thought about the situation. Again and again. _

_He had not left._

_Later, he had tried to tell his partner about his guilt feeling. All he had got was the expected Napoleon's banter. More seriously, Napoleon Solo had reminded him of countless numbers of occasion the Russian had saved his life. _

_-They had drugged you, conditioned you, my friend! It didn't work, Illya! _

_Illya Kuryakin had smiled shyly._

He felt hollow. The next morning found him lying restless.

_-Will he come back some day?_

_-I don't know._

So, perhaps Alexander Waverly had lost the lead. He hadn't been able to convince Napoleon. Eventually, Napoleon Solo was far more a stubborn one than his Russian partner.

Illya Kuryakin got up, impatiently. An idea had crossed his mind, and gone away. Something unpleasant. Something his friend had told him. Something he had not understood. Something he had forgotten. Something he knew. There was the guilt feeling in his partner's voice. And... something else. Sadness. Resignation.

* * *

Napoleon Solo clenched his fists.

It was not a jail.

It didn't look like an hospital.

It didn't even look like a psychiatric hospital.

But it was one.

One with a nice private house, huge bedroom, comfortable bathroom, beautiful garden.

A swimming pool.

But one psychiatric hospital.

Hidden fences.  
Hidden guards.

Hidden cameras.

Hidden microphones.

Boring tests, boring discussions. Boring and useless.

He had been there for days, for amost two weeks, now, and it didn't improve matters for him, though the bright smiles, the satisfied looks, the encouraging words. It didn't fool him. He had been conditioned, mischievously. They had studied, listened, tried, in order to find out how it worked. Uncle specialist were good at it. Usually.

Napoleon Solo walked towards the garden. He held a book, and headed to a wooden bench. An amazing thing was that he never met any other « patient ». As if he was alone in this place. One of those legendary very rich, very strange men who chose to live apart. He sneered: he didn't look for protecting himself from the world. Quite the contrary. He was there to protect the whole world from him. That's why he was alone. People took care of him, discreetly. He turned to the house. Napoleon Solo wasn't a loner. He would have to come to a decision. If they couldn't – as they wouldn't...- take him back to his old self, he would have to leave. He would have to forget. His job, Waverly, his friends. Illya Kuryakin. Uncle specialists were good at it, too. Usually.

* * *

Alexander Waverly considered his visitor, playing with his pipe. The man who stood in front of him looked - tried to look – relaxed. But he was not. The Section 1, Number 1 didn't turn around anymore.

-What about him, Doctor?

The visitor pursed his lips and sighed.

-I meet Mr Solo every day, sir. We talk, we test, we try. If you want to know, Napoleon Solo is fine. Absolutely fine, ready to wolf down some Thrush naughty birds, as soon as possible.

The words were wonderfully encouraging. Neither the tone, nor the face.

-I could free him, and he could come back here tomorrow, sir. And everything would be perfect. For years.

Optimistic words, again. Grim face, dull tone. Alexander Waverly fingered his pipe, again and again.

-Until they would need him. I am sorry, sir. We didn't get anything. Words, sound... I couldn't identify the signal. Hypnosis didn't work, either. Mr Solo remembered precisely some things. Not that. He fights, sir, he fights against his guilt, his feelings, his resignation.

-Your prognosis?

The Doctor shook his head. He had feared that question.

-We'll perhaps make it, sir. But it will take time. A long, a very long time. And ...

Alexander Waverly cut in, flatly.

-A long time? What use, Doctor? Napoleon Solo doesn't deserve that.

The two men kept silent, lost in unpleasant thoughts. Napoleon Solo would have to disappear. More precisely, Uncle had to disappear from his life. Uncle, his job, Waverly, his friends. His partner. What you didn't know didn't harm you. Uncle could give him a healthy, safe existence. He wouldn't be of any use to Thrush. Uncle could give him, would give him a happy live.

-You'll tell him about that, sir? Or, if you prefer...

Waverly smiled bitterly. He would. The other man hesitated.

-Of course, sir, it's not a matter of great urgency. I'll try again. Who knows...

His visitor had left, eventually. Alexander Waverly imagined. A smiling, relaxed Napoleon Solo, working, succeeding, of course, travelling, meeting people, women, flirting. Wife, children, family? Not so bad, finally.

He stared at the files on his desk. In a few minutes, he would discuss about them with his CEA. Show must go on. Everybody was expendable. He walked towards the window, and looked out, considering the United Nations Building. A well married, good father Napoleon Solo.

-An empty shell.

Someone hissed softly behind him. He turned to the visitor, frowning. Illya Kuryakin smiled faintly, pointing at the outside.

-Have we trouble with them, sir?

Alexander Waverly realized that the Russian had heard his comment. He muttered something, and motioned his visitor to sit down. Then he pushed the files towards him, but Illya Kuryakin ignored them. He was still pale, and looked especially tired. Waverly felt concerned.

-Mr Kuryakin...

The Russian leaned forward.

-Sir, have you heard of... Mr Solo?

Blue eyes meeting blue eyes.

-Mr Kuryakin, I told you about that, I think.

The cold voice and the freezing gaze. The gaze wich usually petrified the careless visitor. Useless, this time.

-Where is he?

Illya Kuryakin wasn't smiling any more. He repeated, softly.

-Where is he, sir?

The Old Man didn't reply. He took a deep breath, and went on.

-He is in one of our clinics, isn't he?

Alexander Waverly didn't avert his eyes. The young Russian sighed.

-You couldn't let him leave like that, of course. You forced him...

The Old Man frowned and forced himself to harrumph.

-That's not a secret, Mr Kuryakin. Of course, Mr Solo had been conditioned. He needed help. I thought you were aware of that!

-He « needed »?

The Russian insisted on the word. He should have been aware. He had let pain, exhaustion fool him. But Alexander Waverly replied, slowly.

-Yes, Mr Kuryakin. We had to be sure that Thrush wouldn't try again to use Mr Solo, against us, and against himself. That's routine. Not a secret, not a plot!

-He « needed », so he doesn't need any more?

Alexander Waverly picked up his pipe, but the blond agent didn't give up.

-Sir?

The Old Man stared at him, grimly.

-Mr Solo's position was extremely clear, Mr Kuryakin. He wished to keep his distance from Uncle, perhaps until he would be sure to be free of all that conditioning. Perhaps definitely.

- »Was », « needed », « wished »? And now, sir?

Alexander Waverly kept silent.

-That's an eloquent silence, sir. You told me, once, that you wouldn't let me waste all the efforts, all the time that had been devoted to me. Isn't Napoleon worth the effort?

The Old Man looked down. The Russian's voice was tense, but controlled.

-Doctors are taking care of him, Mr Kuryakin.

-But they don't find the clue! So, what are you going to do? You'll give up? You'll let him give up? You'll blow away his past? You'll erase his memories?

-We'll give him... It might happen that we could have to give him a new start. A happy, peaceful and quiet life.

-An empty shell?

And Illya Kuryakin choked.

-And of course, you didn't intend to tell me about? It was none of my business?

Alexander Waverly stood up and banged his fist on the table. He looked furious. Illya Kuryakin knew that he had gone more than a bit too far, but he wouldn't give up.

-Mr Kuryakin, here are two important files. You are going to study them, and to choose some agents for those assignments. Immediately. You have one hour.

The Old Man stopped harrumphing. The Russian had stood up, too, pale, determined. Waverly turned to his desk, and added a third file to the pile.

-And this, this one, Mr Kuryakin, is a special assignment. For you.

Then, he left his office.

* * *

Napoleon Solo looked around, again. What would be his life? What would he feel, if he met a blond Russian, a stranger? Would he feel anything? Closing his eyes he tried to imagine a perfect life. A family, an interesting job. No regret about his past existence

He could be happy. He would be.

* * *

-The meeting will provide a rare opportunity. All the heads of Uncle gathered in the same place. We have a few weeks, and I want Solo back to the affairs, in charge of the Security.

The man shrugged his shoulders. No chance! Waverly had put Solo on the sidelines. At least! He couldn't trust him. Even if he let him come back, he would never entrust him with the security of such a meeting.

The other man sneered.

-They don't know what they are going to do with Solo. They think about firing him, in a gentle way, of course. The Uncle routine! Erasing his memories, giving him a new life. Luckily, Waverly hesitates. Oh, don't look at me like that! Solo is in a sort of private convalescent home. A very efficient, very competent Doctor is taking care of him. Very efficient, and... very married. A man who loves his wife. Who cherishes his kids. Who wouldn't like them to have trouble. So, some unexpected miracles are possible, about Mr Solo.

* * *

Illya Kuryakin took hold of the files. On the top, a sheet of paper. An address. The Russian winced, feeling a twinge of bitter remorse. It was unfair. He had been rude. He had been unfair. Alexander Waverly didn't deserve it. And the Section 2, Number 1 buried himself in the other files. Two missions, two assignments. Some names. Skillful agents. A persistent headache. He eventually indulged in resting a few minutes, his head leaning on his hands, eyes closed.

-Mr Kuryakin? Illya?

A soft voice, and a hand gently tapping on his shoulder startled him out of sleep. Because he had fallen asleep. Alexander Waverly was looking at him with concern. He handed a cup of coffee to him, and sat down. The young Russian bit his lips.

-I... I am sorry, sir. I... I told things...

-Shhhh, young man. You told things, and perhaps some of them had to be told. You look exhausted.

Illya Kuryakin shook his head.

-Is Napoleon here?

Stubborn young man. Waverly's eyes twinkled.

-Yes, Mr Kuryakin. And I want you to go there. You'll talk with him. You have to know that I met the Doctor in charge of your friend, earlier this morning. I was about to call him about you.

The Russian pursed his lips, frowning. The Doctor would disagree. They always disagreed.

-Tststs, Mr Kuryakin.

Waverly's voice, his eyes were amused. He could read his agent's mind, his feeling about Medical.

-I was about to call him, but he called me first. We had talked about Mr Solo's future, and, finally, he thinks that perhaps you could help. As his partner, as his friend. You are expected to be there within two hours. Drink this, eat something, and go, Mr Kuryakin.

Illya Kuryakin grabbed the cup and obeyed, mechanically.

-Mr Kuryakin?

-Yes, sir?

-Bring him back.

* * *

-It can't work! You are kidding!

-Of course, it will work. Our helpful Doctor will swear that Solo is fine.

-But they won't entrust him with...

-Of course, they will! Waverly wants him by his side. When their new brilliant Russian CEA will be killed in an unfortunate accident, just a few days before the meeting...

The older man looked obviously doubtful. It was a long shot. The other went on, like the cat who stared at the canary he was going to eat.

-Uncle people believe in trust, friendship.. we have time. First let's hope that Mr Kuryakin won't disappoint us.

* * *

Napoleon Solo cursed silently. He had not read one page, though he had turned them. His Doctor was coming, on time, as usual. He sighed, stood up and walked towards him. The man looked ill at ease, but Napoleon Solo didn't intend to wait.

-Doctor? I have to talk with Mr Waverly. As soon as possible.

The man pulled a longer face. What happened? As he kept silent, the Uncle agent insisted.

-We tried, Doctor. You made your best. I can't go on. It doesn't work. I... I won't stay ther all my life. You know what I mean. I have to talk to Waverly.

The other man, biting his lips, replied reluctantly.

-I was at the HQ, this morning, Napoleon. I met Mr Waverly and we argued about ... that.

Napoleon Solo was taken aback. Already? They had decided, already. What was he doing? Did he hope that they would hesitate? That Waverly would refuse? That he would tell him to go on, to fight, because it wasn't hopeless? Because it was worth the effort? No. It wasn't worth the effort. He knew it. They had decided, because it was the best. For Uncle, and... for him. He smiled bitterly.

-I see. So, we won't need to talk.

-No... er... Yes, Napoleon, of course you have to talk to him. He'll call you this afternoon.

He paused, still ill at ease. A threatening look.

-I'll see you this evening, after... If you please, Napoleon. It's not what you think, and... Napoleon?

The dark haired man was already walking towards the garden, ignoring him.

He was – he had been – an efficient agent. A fighter. A player. A survivor. The youngest CEA. He stared at his hands. His skillful hands. Those hands which could kill, force a door open, play with sneaky wires in order to blast evil Thrush devices, help innocents, save lives. Skillful, powerful hands which would now hold a phone, mow the lawn, clip the hedge...

All that he was so good at.

All that he liked to do.

He should go back to the house, eat, and keep vigil next to the phone.

He was not hungry

The hell with Uncle.

The hell with Waverly.

Napoleon Solo smiled mischievously. He could delude them all. He could leave. Escaping from this golden prison. He knew that he could. He knew that they would try to track him down. And they wouldn't succeed. One man would be able to find him, but this man wouldn't betray him. Illya would know, he would understand, and he would agree. It would be an exciting life.

But Napoleon Solo wouldn't attempt anything. The « Napoleon Solo » he was wasn't Napoleon Solo any more. Outside, Thrush would track him, too. He grimace at the memory. They had conditioned him: so they would call him and he would trott behind them. They would use him again.

The phone was ringing, he could hear it. But he wouldn't go.

He cursed, grabbed the book and threw it, as far as he could, aiming at some invisible target. As the book was crushed on the ground, all the pages flew around.

-So, _scripta volant_, today, my friend?

A familiar voice, soft, with a slight accent.


	3. Chapter 3: Back to normal?

-What the hell are you doing here?

Napoleon Solo was abashed. But the blond man didn't answer. He was gathering the torn pages, and the older agent's anger melted immediately. Illya.

Illya Kuryakin had managed to find him. He had managed to come in, deluding the guards. Now, he was picking up the pages, one after another, of a valueless book, ignoring the man he had come to see. Illya liked books, he liked them physically Contact. Touching, rubbing, turning pages. Sùelling books, old or new. And of course, reading them. Napoleon Solo had so precise memories about that. Illya on the top of a stepladder, in a library, looking for some important information. His eyes were staring at the titles, but his fingers ran over, brushed, stroked the bindings. Illya finding the right book, getting down, hugging the said book, like a baby. Obviously, the torn book had broken his heart.

Illya Kuryakin didn't mind about the torn book. He was just so happy, for picking up all the lost pages, one after the other, gave him time. A precious opportunity. The minutes he needed in order to compose his features. He remembered Napoleon on the island: worried, devastated, exhausted, but still Napoleon Solo. This one was the slender, dark haired, handsome man he knew. He was casually dressed, but whatever he wore, casually meant elegantly. Then, the familiar silhouette had turned to him. No trace of this easy, warm, disarming, charming, comforting smile. No trace of this severe, cold, threatening look. No trace of anything he could remember. The voice, the words sounded angry, but the face was just dull. The eyes, usually shining, twinkling, whatever the message: friendship, hatred, anger, trouble... were just blank.

What had they done to him?

And Napoleon Solo knew. He knew that he wouldn't give up. The hell with a « happy, peaceful life ». He wouldn't forget all that. He couldn't. He wouldnt accept. The hell with Waverly.

-Illya?

The last page was picked up under his nose, and handed to him. The voice wasn't angry, any more. Illya Kuryakin took a deep breath. He stood up, a bit awkwardly, and a helpful hand steadied him. The Russian was good at hiding his thoughts, his emotions, his feelings, but he knew that he couldn't fool his partner: Napoleon Solo would read his surprise, his trouble. But he had no choice. His friend looked at him, and Illya Kuryakin smiled with relief. Napoleon Solo was back.

-What are you doing here, Illya?

The Russian sighed, shaking his head, and feigning discouragement.

-« Good afternoon, Illya. I am glad to see you. »

Napoleon Solo raised his eyebrows. The blond man sighed again.

-So, no? Well, at least, « Good afternoon, Illya? »

The dark haired man bit his lips and smiled, a sheepish, warm, wonderfully familiar smile. His hand slid along his friend's arm, and squeezed it.

-I am ... more than happy to see you, my friend. Are you okay? You look tired.

-I am fine, Napoleon. Mr Waverly...

Napoleon Solo frowned: the Doctor was coming back, and of course he had seen his partner. He cursed.

-We're in trouble, Illya! Here is the cavalry!

The man waved his hand, motioning them to join him.

-Mr Kuryakin, you are here! Mr Waverly told me...

Napoleon Solo didn't hear the man any longer. Illya Kuryakin had come officially. With Waverly's agreement? Why? In order to convince him to... ? He couldn't believe it, but he released his grip, and took some steps away from his partner.

-Mr Solo?

Oh, no. No, man. Illya stood, still holding the book, looking at him inquiringly.

-Napoleon?

-So, « my friend », you didn't tell me : what the hell are you doing here?

The cold voice hissed the words, harshly.

-I came to talk...

The Doctor cut in.

-No, Mr Kuryakin. You came to take Mr Solo back to the HQ. That's what about we talked with Mr Waverly, just a few minutes ago. I think that your place, Mr Solo, isn't here any more.

Was that a sneaky trap?

-But...

-We tried all, and nothing happened, Mr Solo. There is no trouble with you, really.

No trouble? The man was kidding! Illya Kuryakin spoke softly, putting his hand on his shoulder.

-The Old Man told me to bring you back, Napoleon. You are safe, nothing will happen.

And whatever could happen, they would cope with. But he didn't say that.

The man stared at the road, though the car had disappeared. He had betrayed them. He had betrayed the Uncle. For his family's sake. His eyes fell on the torn book he held.

-Illya? Where are you taking me?

The Russian sighed, and stopped. Turning to his partner, he looked deeply in his eyes.

-We are going back to the HQ, Napoleon. And if you want, you'll drive. But before...

The Russian was now smiling. A mischievous smile.

-Before?

-Before, I am going to look for something... to eat, my friend. You had your lunch, I hadn't.

Napoleon Solo chuckled, as they went on.

-Illya?

-Yes?

-Is that ... finished? I can't believe it. I don't understand how Waverly can trust me... I thought that he wanted me to leave the Uncle, definitely.

Illya Kuryakin turned serious.

-Taking risks pays off, Napoleon. We need you. You... You are not that expendable, eventually! Everything will be okay. We'll see at it.

They kept silent for a while.

-Illya? What about eating something? I... I hadn't any lunch.

-So... that's a real affair.

_And that's the end of The Missing Link. You know that there is an evil Thrush plan, and I'll write this story in a few weeks... Thank you for reading..._


End file.
